On the Other Side

Swimming at Bigelow Hollow. That's me on the right, C on the left, K behind us taking the picture. Thanks dear friends for one of the best memories of my summer.

There's something about emerging from cancer treatment into the life I was struggling with (at times) ten months ago. I don't feel much different. A little stiff and itchy in the area where there once was a breast. A little surprised by the short gray curls in the mirror where my hair was once long and brown. Other than that, it's the same old pile of unfinished projects which are both my albatross and refuge, the same deep-down angst. I want more collaborative work, more engagement with the world and its joys and sorrows. And I want less clutter. And less time in front of this damned computer screen.

It comes down to this: I'm not confident, as I once was, that there is a long road ahead of me. Therefore, the things that weren't working in my life before, the dissatisfaction I couldn't untangle without stepping outside my comfort zone or waiting years for circumstances to change (a boy off to college, a man free to reconfigure work and home) are feeling, not urgent exactly, but ripe.

I am ripe for change.

Yesterday I asked Jim to look over his work schedule, see if he can take a couple of days in September so that we can get away for a long weekend. We need a few long walks, leisurely talks, space to dream and think and maybe even plan. We need time to celebrate that we're on the other side of something hard and the landscape, though familiar, is fundamentally changed.

The story of my life is not over yet. I'm ready to write the next chapter.

The Good Side of Disaster

I while back I wrote an essay for the NPR series "This I Believe." My essay was recorded by WRNI in Rhode Island and broadcast several times there. (It used to be available online, but I can't find it now). Anyway, the producer emailed in 2009 to tell me that mine was one of the most popular and would I please submit another. 


It took me two years, but today I felt inspired and wrote my second essay. Who knows if it will every see airwaves, but you, dear readers, get a sneak peek. Hope you like.

There are moments in life when, out of the blue, all the clues line up. The pretty veils of illusion part, and suddenly you can see all the way to the very bottom of the deep dark truth. Your stomach drops to your knees. Your heart leaps into your throat. And there it is. You know it. You’re about to lose your job. Your best friend has been lying to you. Someone you love is dead, which means — not as obviously as you might think — they’re never coming back. Your husband is having an affair. You don’t have to wait for the doctor to tell you. You already know. It’s cancer.

I have had many such moments. All of the above, in fact, and more. Sometimes I fell apart. Sometimes I talked myself out of it, trying valiantly to think positive, to not jump to conclusions, to trust.

Ultimately, there’s no way around the truth. And avoiding it is exhausting, if not life-threatening.

So I believe in falling apart.

I believe in the fabulous life-expanding power of falling all the way to the bottom of the well. I believe in tears and the teeth-chattering knee-knocking nervous sweat of facing your worst fears made manifest. If I can manage it, I play the sympathy card, gather all the support around me that I can, and just plain face it.

As awful as it feels in the moment, I love it when the map I’ve plotted for my life gets ripped out from under me. It’s like waking up from a dream, a dream where I’ve limited my life’s possibilities to those that don’t scare me.

If I can face an unimaginable surprise divorce and find pleasure in being alone, even for five minutes, then I can also experience the wild joy of a new relationship, a much better relationship than I ever thought possible. If I can face a cancer diagnosis and the — cancer or not —inevitability of death, then I can risk a slew of personal and professional rejections, and maybe a few heretofore unimagined successes.

I think of circus fleas, confined to a test-tube laid on its side. After banging into the low, invisible ceiling of the tube, these natural high-jumpers give up jumping altogether. Even when freed they don’t dare jump. They’ve been conditioned to accept a limited life.

Whether we realize it or not, our lives are not taking place in a test tube. Disaster can come along at any moment and smack you right in the face. If it does, please accept my sincere condolences. And my advice:

Let yourself feel it. You are not safe, nor are you limited.

Eight Years

Millie is a Youtube fan in this one - hilarious. More of my videos here.

The apple tree in my backyard is afroth with blossoms. I open my eyes in the morning and gaze at it through the picture window in my bedroom. For the moment, anyway, I feel lucky about my life. I have a husband who loves me without reservation, a stepson with whom there is little of the typical teenage drama, a network of loved ones who care about me and show it. An apple tree and a garden and creative work. Not to mention the cutest poodle in the world. And, gosh darn it, for the most part anyway, I like myself too.

It helps that my hair is coming back, that my energy isn't bad, that I'm counting down so quickly now to my last chemotherapy treatment - just three more to go.

When I first found out I had cancer I thought about the the relationships I want to deepen or repair, my unfinished projects, the gifts I want to give. I weighed the measure of it all against the prospect of a shortened life, letting go of the parts that involve watching loved ones age, and my own romantic visions of old lady-hood, deep wrinkles and rocking chairs.

Eight years, I heard myself think. I can do it all in that time. Just give me eight years.

It stunned me to realize that all my goals and dreams seemed doable in such a short window of time. It surprised me that I was capable of such a humble wish. But most of all, it spurred me. Whether my life turned out to be short or long, there were things I really really wanted to do. It was time to get busy.

I am busy.

And I'm realizing one more thing: If everything I ever want out of life can be accomplished in eight years, then I'm thinking way too small.

How about you?

Radiation Anticipation

More of my videos here.

This video about covers it - J~ and I debriefing after our first appointment with the local Radiation Oncologist.

Four more weeks of chemo (three more treatments - I had my most recent yesterday) and then a three-week break to get me set up to begin radiation. Five and a half weeks of that (twenty-eight treatments in all). If all goes according to plan, I'll be done by August.

Yesterday J~ and I ran into a friend while walking Millie in the park. Something in our conversation sparked the realization that I never think about five years out, how I might feel if I get to that point and I'm still cancer free. It's an important milestone in cancer survivorship, generally regarded as the threshold after which the chance of recurrence drops - doesn't go away, but drops.

In the midst of all that's going on now, it's hard to imagine that I will ever hit that milestone. It feels safer to keep breathing my way through each challenge as it arises, living in the moment, savoring all that is good and present in my life right now rather than pinning my heart on a future uncertainty.

Besides, what if I get there and then have a recurrence three months later?

Ideally, I won't notice the five year mark passing, I'll be too busy and healthy and happy and engaged in life.

I asked J~ if he thinks about the five year mark. "Oh yes," he nodded, "I told you before." And then he said something in a quiet singsong, his little dream for me. "Hartford Marathon, 2020."

Last time he mentioned this I laughed it off without making the connection that this date had any particular significance. This time I laughed it off again, assuring him in no uncertain terms that I will never run a marathon.The idea of running an entire 26.2 miles, not to mention all the miles of training leading up to it, seems to me grueling, boring, not at all who I am.

Then again, I never thought I'd run a half-marathon, let alone enjoy it. I never thought I'd ride a bicycle 100 miles in one day, let alone six times over in a single season. I never thought my life would take all the various unexpected twists and turns it has taken in the years since I began this blog. Who knows. Perhaps I'll be running that marathon after all, feeling strong and vibrant and joyously grateful to be alive, and sharing the journey right here on this blog.

Time will tell.

Chemo Shmemo

I hate chemo.

I had my twelfth chemotherapy treatment today.

I wasn't in the mood. In fact, I was in a no good very bad irrationally angry mood. I was a hater.

I hated being at the cancer center, hated seeing all the sickly people and their wheelchairs, walkers, oxygen tubes in their noses, wearing terrible wigs, looking all shades of green-yellow-pale. I hated the patients who appeared to be healthy too, with thick, real hair as if chemo never touched them. Even one woman with short short hair but a full scalp of it, and a beatific smile. How dare she be flaunting that hair growth in front of me? And the doctors sauntering through in their sharp outfits and lab coats as if cancer could never touch them personally.

Of course this isn't true, but this is how it looked to me in my bad mood moment.

My hatred knew no bounds. I hated the chatty woman at the front desk who put the plastic ID bracelet on me so loose it fell off as soon as I put my arm down. I hated the television going on and on about the killing of Osama Bin Laden, the caption on the screen announcing that he'd been shot through his left eye. Why do I need to know that? I don't want to know that. It was all I could do not to hate my husband for his tender, tentative overtures of support while I sat seething in my waiting room chair.

Most of all I hated that I was allowing yet another needle, yet another series of pills. What I wanted was some brave voice of reason and authority, someone to come in and grab me by the arm and say, This is crazy, you don't belong in this place. Let's get you out of here! And I wanted to believe that fantasy rescuer really knew what was best. I wanted to take that hand and run and believe it was the right thing to do.

It felt like it truly was right to run but I wasn't brave enough to do it. No one was supporting me to do it. Therefore, I hated them all.

Especially myself.

At the same time it felt like I, if I let myself notice anyone's kindness, I would cry and cry and cry and collapse on the floor screaming. I'd get up and throw furniture through windows and hit people, shove them all, even the sick ones. I would blame everyone around me for what is happening to me. Leave me alone! It's not my fault! I hate you all!

Um, just a tad bit inappropriate.

So instead, I tried to diffuse the anger by letting just a little love in, letting myself notice just a little bit that people care and wish they could help, letting a few tears leak out.

And I submitted yet again to the dreaded routine.

And now it's done.

Four more to go.

Tonight. I'm convinced my hair is coming in white, or at least mostly white. J~ doesn't think so.

This is from a few days ago. Looks pretty white to me...

You go girl. No hate for Millie.

Eighty Percent

Not so bloggity this week, sorry folks, but plenty vloggity. I've been busy with getting the word out about the t-shirt fundraiser (it's not too late to order one!) and collating orders - fifty-one and counting! I'm very pleased.

Living the Good Life, Cancer or Not. More of my videos here.

Chemo tomorrow. I'll be getting less than a full dose again, thanks to a resurgence of the neuropathy issue. My palms and the soles of my feet feel like I've been slapping them against pavement - hypersensitive, tingly and hot. After two weeks at eighty percent, last week I was given almost ninety. This week I was supposed to go back up to a hundred but instead I'm going back down to eighty.

I was worrying over this today, fretting about how all these drugs will impact me long-term, fearing my doctor will want to switch me to a different, harsher drug (that has less neuropathy issues). So all in all, I'm all right with the 80%.

And, on the bright side, it is nice to notice I'm assuming there will be a long-term to fret over.

My old friend F~ visited today, haven't seen her in many years. She's become a massage therapist, brought her table along and set it up in my living room. I'm here to say she's become a mighty fine massage therapist. Lucky me.

My stepson is on a school trip for a week - good to have the space on my own, and space to be with J~ uninterrupted, good also to notice the boy is growing up. Not worried about him one bit.

On deck this weekend: Millie gets a full-on sheering, I will bike again, and J~ and I will take some romantic time alone. If you're thinking that means roses and candlelight, it might. But then again, we tend to feel especially romantic in Home Depot, so who knows.

There Are Reasons

I have been silent for a month. Why?

The most recent reason is the lump, but I'll get to that.

At first it was because I was giving myself a vacation from the computer, spending more time outdoors, enjoying the waning days of summer, my favorite time of the year.

Then it was because the fertility specialist had recommended I retest that one clotting factor in order to get a better sense of whether blood clotting might be an issue in my next pregnancy. But for some reason, I kept putting off that blood test, and I didn't know what to say about that.

Then, on the heels of a heart-to-heart with J~ about why it didn't seem to bother him that I wasn't following through, it became clear to me that I was in it, on a certain level, alone. While another child was a dream for him, it wasn't a high priority. I came to understand yet again (but perhaps a bit more deeply) that a baby would basically be my project, my all-consuming chore for years to come, and though he would help in every way he could, and though he would be a dedicated and loving father, and though I would take immense pleasure in raising my own child... I could not bring myself to finish this sentence.

I finally told J~ that I did not want this badly enough to want it badly alone. J~ had to admit, he was not in that place. "Maybe twenty years ago..." he began, and suddenly I was thinking back over my own past, landing on myself at 25. I worked part-time as a nanny for four children, ages 5, 5, 3 and 1 1/2, and I was good at it, I enjoyed it. One afternoon I drew a picture of the baby, asleep in her stroller, all her pudgy folds, and as I did this, on some level I knew. I was ready. But I wasn't financially stable and my boyfriend would have been terrified. I expect if I had told him then that I wanted to have a baby, he would have disappeared in a cloud of dust a la Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. (Which is what he did ten years later, but that's another story.)

And then I wasn't writing because I didn't know how to tell you I'd pulled the plug. Though I still don't see myself actively preventing pregnancy, I am done trying, more done than any of the other times I've professed that I was done. I fear, dear readers, you will be disappointed and you will go away.

It's a funny thing, blogging. When I started this, I was throwing my words into the ether, thrilled and surprised to find anyone out there was actually taking the time to read them. I'm not a secretive person by nature. Over time, many of my friends and family members came to know that I do this. My mother reads regularly, my father checks in. It doesn't escape my consciousness that there's a good chance my ex-husband stops by on occasion, satisfying his curiosity while sidestepping the pesky chore of actually communicating with me. I never thought I'd come to depend on the support I receive from or feel a responsibility to the large community of strangers who make up most of my readers. But sometimes I wish I'd never told anyone I know.

Because then, when I find a lump in my breast, I wouldn't feel reluctant to write about it. I wouldn't worry about pushy questions and panicky judgments about my choices in health care. I don't want to be grilled about what I'm doing and not doing and how fast I'm doing and not doing it. I don't want to hear horror stories. I don't want everyone's fear flying at me. Trust me, I'm scared enough.

On the bright side, my lump is less than half the size it was when we first found it 10 days ago. The radiologist I spoke to said that while "anything can happen" she'd never heard of a cancerous lump shrinking, that it's very common in women my age that benign lumps grow and shrink along with the ebb and flow of the menstrual cycle, and she confirmed what I've read all over the internet – that 80% of all breast lumps turn out to be benign. And that when there are more than one lump next to each other (it turns out there are two of them) it's actually a good sign.

Inventory

In honor of our anniversary, J~ and I spent a long weekend on Cape Cod, biking, window shopping, hiking the sand dunes, eating big decadent meals, and reminiscing about our early days as a couple. What a strange time that was for us, both reeling from our suddenly broken marriages, thrilled and nervous about the bond quickly forming between us.

The three years since we married are marked with so many milestones, not the least of which was made plain to me this weekend: somewhere along the line, this crazy new romance became a solid partnership. There have been down times of course, our failed pregnancies not the least of them. But the hardships we've faced together are framed by a shared tenderness, which turns them, to a certain degree, into treasured memories.

As I settle into the likelihood that I will not have children of my own, I accept that there will always be a certain amount of sadness in the picture for me. But I also see how that sadness has mellowed over the years. Until menopause – as long as there's hope – there will be vulnerability, but perhaps one day I'll carry only tiny scars where once there was an open wound.

Scanning my inner horizons, I see another emotional trauma yet unhealed, that of my first marriage's end. Time has helped, but I have not managed to close that wound. Perhaps this also has to do with hope, though I'm not sure what I'm hoping for. I certainly wouldn't trade what I have now for a return to that relationship, though it was not without its own beauty, and I appreciate the role it played in my life.

One thing is becoming more and more certain to me with every passing year: Life is short. Too short. It's a tragedy for all of us. The more I accept this, the more apparent it becomes that I can only do my best, assume everyone else is doing their best, grieve the disappointments as they arise but get back to appreciation of the fleeting present moment as quickly as possible. Because life is also pretty darn great.

Recap and Reprise

Past and Future Ghosts, 11 x 17" gouache and ink on paper.
This piece will appear in an art show upcoming at Windham Arts Collaborative, in Willimatic, CT. If you're in the area, come to the opening reception on Friday, April 3rd. I'd love to see you! (Details here)

I began this blog shortly after my second miscarriage, which took place on a Wednesday night in November, 2005. I was at work when I knew for certain.

I worked as an abortion counselor.

I left the clinic early that evening, heading home to my hot water bottle and an empty apartment. (My husband, A~, was away on business.) Luckily, this loss was easier than the first - quicker, less painful. I could handle it on my own. The grief that followed was a hard but familiar terrain.

Shortly thereafter, my marriage shattered. After more than a decade together, it was a sudden and devastating break. I felt like I'd been run over by a truck: nauseous and heartsick and unable to breathe properly for months. At the same time, I felt freed of a great weight. A life I thought I could never endure (without A~) became a life full of promise. I wrote all about it on these virtual pages.

During this time, I was introduced to J~, who was struggling with a very similar life crisis. Three years (and, sadly, two more miscarriages) have come and gone. J~ and I are married - happily, to say the least. B~, my stepson, now in high school, is thriving.

Babies or not? It's still an open question, though it burns less urgently than it did when I began discussing it here.

Babies or not, life is good.

Lemons and Sugar

You know that expression, When life hands you lemons, make lemonade? I think that's a lovely idea. I think I'm tremendously good at it. Most of us are. We've had plenty of disappointments from which we must wring positives.

The harder thing is to recognize whose hand life is employing to bring this sour fruit into our days. I mean, come on! How long should a person stand under the lemon tree, making the best of it, before setting out in search of something a little sweeter?

I wish I understood this when I was with A~. I would've walked away a long time ago, sparing us both (or at least sparing me) a lot of pain. Thank goodness I found such a peach of a man to take his place.

This is not to say I don't have disappointments. Loyal readers, I think you know what I'm referring to here.

Every month I get the message, loud and clear, that a baby is not in the cards. It might be, at some point, but right now, at least so far, it is not.

The upshot is that I've become overly focused on my more-than-half-grown stepson, B~, and how his parents let him down in ways I imagine I never would've, given the chance to start from scratch with my own. It's tough on J~ to live with my hyper-criticism. It's tough on me to recognize just how little control I have of the situation. It's tough on B~, I'm sure, in ways I can't fathom at all.

It's time to refocus my energy, to consider all the other possible adventures life might hold. In short: I'm standing under a lemon tree again, and it's time to move on.

And so, I'm filling out applications for art shows. I'm working my way through the lessons in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher CreativityI'm writing, I'm painting, I'm taking photographs. I'm looking into grad schools, embracing new clients, considering teaching again, and reading through a stack of good books. If things keep going this way, I might even pick up my guitar.

I'm also planting this season's garden. And picking up where I left off last fall, digging the footing for a backyard patio. I've enlisted a friend and neighbor and landscaping expert to help with the trickier parts.

Also, we're talking about moving. Though our home is lovely, living closer to J~'s work would open up professional possibilities for me, and drastically shorten his commute. If B~ ends up staying with us, there would be new opportunities for him, as well. Therefore, we have other home-improvement projects in the works, for our own pleasure and also to make the house more market-ready. Just in case.

"We need a bigger life than this," I said to J~ as we lay in bed this morning, processing our busy weekend, the challenges that the work week inevitably presents.

The dim blue light of dawn had given way to bright day. Through the bedroom windows, it is undeniable: the maples and hemlocks are leafing out, the apple tree is afroth with blossoms. Spring has sprung. Life is moving on. With fifteen minutes before J~ had to be up, rousing B~ for school, beginning the week-long grind, we did what any red-blooded, potentially still-fertile couple in our situation would do: We had sex.

It's that crucial time in my cycle and we aren't giving up our subscription to the Fruit of the Month Club just yet. Who knows. Maybe this time it won't be a lemon after all.

All In One Piece

I have no photos to show for my honeymoon, not of the hibiscus-lined hotel grounds of our first night's stay overlooking the town of Alajuela, not of the narrow soot-choked highway winding through the mountainous countryside the next morning, nor the small-statured Ticas (native Costa Ricans call themselves this) who walk along this and every road, night and day, in much larger numbers than you'd ever see in the States, unconcerned as cars and trucks and tractor trailers and tourists in their shiny rental cars swerve and careen through the tight corners. I have no photos of the seagulls gliding alongside our ferry across the bay, nor of the velvety beige cows with their long silken ears, grazing in the sun-bleached fields along the next stretch of road.

I have no picture of the dense, moist woods we hiked at Montezuma, with their six-foot ferns and moss and plant-encrusted trees, or the waterfall we swam under at hike's end, nor of the beach, with its black and white and pink and ochre-red stones, its miles of surf and rocky outcroppings, the orange-legged crabs scurrying in the underbrush. I don't have a picture of lovely Catalina, the eight-year-old girl who taught us kindergarten Spanish in the hotel pool, smiling in the jasmine-scented dusk, nor of J~, gazing at me with nothing short of adoration as the sun set golden on his face, greenery all around and reflected in his eyes. I don't have pictures of the long, ever more mountainous drive to La Fortuna, or the papaya orchard we walked beside there, adopted by one of the many sweet-natured and diminutive Tican dogs which followed us in our ramblings. We named this first dog Lindo Tigre (roughly "Handsome Tiger", after his stripes) and the others in the same fashion (Lindo Negra was black, Lindo Beagle (pronounced beeg-lay) was, of course, a beagle, Lindo Guapo was handsome-handsome, and Lindo Pocito -- you guessed it -- extra small).

I don't even have the one picture I snapped with my cell phone, of the Volcano Arenal, taken through the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor window of our grand observatory bedroom. I have only the memory of us outstretched on the king-sized bed, ooh-ing and ah-ing as smoke rose sometimes in great explosive clouds, rocks tumbling at intervals, one by one down the mountain's cindery flank, raising puffs of dust during the day, glowing red and shattering, like fireworks, at night.

I don't have the picture of the volcano because my cell phone was stolen on what was to be our last full day in the country, along with a small backpack and another larger one containing several books and magazines, both of our wallets and passports, many art pens, two precious journals of mine, precious family photos J~ carried in his wallet, not to mention some cash (nada mucho), many credit cards, our driver's licenses, J~'s social security card, and our Costa Rican Spanish phrase book (including how to say, "Help, I've been robbed!" which would have come in handy with the five no-habla-Ingles police officers we had to communicate with in hand-gestures and kindergarten Spanish. (Thank you, Catalina!)

It happened on the drive back to Alajuela for our last night, while stopped at a road-side art gallery. We learned the hard way that a black knapsack hidden under a black sweatshirt in the backseat of a locked car in a tiny parking lot beside an art gallery in the middle of nowhere countryside is not safe. We didn´t notice anything amiss (except that the driver´s side door lock was inexplicably jammed) until twenty minutes down the road.

That day, a Friday, was made long by police reports and fingerprinting (of the car, of us), then, cancelling our flights, our cell phones, our credit cards, emailing and phoning family for logistical support. Luckily J~ had some cash and a single credit card in his pocket. But still, we would end up staying three extra days in order to go to the American embassy on Monday in hopes of securing temporary passports. There were moments of stress in which our lazy beach idyll, our hikes and swims and behind-closed-doors honeymoon moments seemed far away. But there was also fun we never would have had.

There was the tour of the coffee plantation (to you gardening enthusiasts: did you know that banana trees are nitrogen fixers?) There was a second Volcano visit (Poas), to the top this time, where we viewed the steaming sulphurous witch's cauldron lagoon where a hot lava pit once roiled. There was Chubascos, a restaurant off the tourist track (more Spanish practice with this one) where we had two delicious meals and contemplated returning for a third, opting instead for a plate of fresh pineapple in our hotel room, some chocolate-covered coffee beans, and a bad American movie with Spanish subtitles.

I don't have any of the other pictures because I left the battery to my camera behind by mistake. But the truth is, the pictures aren't the point. It's the memory, the recollection of the feelings, some of which no photo would ever capture. For instance, there was the sense, at the end of it all, that we are truly a team, truly a couple, and truly, most especially and most pricelessly: a family.

Speaking of family, J~ has an appointment Friday with the fertility doc for an expert read on his proverbial swimmers and their role in our wayward efforts at family planning. And I have an appointment Monday with my Fertility Friend calendar, where I will, yet again, chalk up my own monthly evidence on the subject. Join me, won't you?

In the meantime, I have but one thing to say:

It's good to be home.

Honeymoon Blues?

Usually when B~'s mother comes to pick B~ up for the weekend, J~ is still at work. Meanwhile, I busy myself upstairs so as to avoid awkward unpleasantries with the woman who jilted my man. Today was only a little bit different. This time she was picking B~ up for an entire week. And while I gathered suddenly urgent laundry from the bedroom floor, J~, home early from work, was downstairs with his heart in his socks, waving out the kitchen window as his ex-wife and ex-wife's husband drove off in his ex-car with his ex-son.

Okay, so it isn't his ex-son, but that's how it felt to him. Especially since recent talk of B~ moving in with his mother for the next school year has progressed to actual wheels-in-motion pre-plan planning. It isn't a done deal: there's a private school to check out yet, and a seemingly more stable mother to scrutinize as well. Even so, it's a painful subject for J~, and no surprise that our honeymoon begins with tears.

Actually, it wasn't until the second time he talked about his feelings that he cried. In between, it was me bawling my eyes out for what may seem like the lamest reason ever. I'll admit it to you because I must, because that's what a blog is for, right? I tell you everything. I consider myself duty-bound. So please don't hate me.

I cried because, in packing for the big trip, it hit home that I've been gaining weight, and I really and truly hate that. I've been eating too much and I've been doing it because there are things I don't want to feel, such as, for instance, these three:

1. My very not politically correct feelings about B~'s potential big move: Relief!

2. My reaction to yet another month of not (yet) pregnant: Sick disappointment. Maybe even anger!

3. The sinking knowledge that I need to make a change with what I do with my time, day in, day out: Fear!

The bottom line truth of it is, I've hit a rough patch. Compound that with the fact that I spend too much time alone, too much time trying not to notice everything I'm struggling with, and too much energy trying to mask it all from a thirteen-year-old boy with enough struggles of his own.

Being with J~ for a week straight, I know-- it's all going to come out. I warned him last night that I might have to cry a little each day of our honeymoon. He assured me he doesn't mind.

ME: Even if I cry the whole time?

HIM: In that case, I may have to rent you out to funerals in need of mourners.

ME: Alright, then, I'll pack something black.

And then later, when his tears had dried:

ME: Looks like we'll both be packing our funeral outfits.

Ah, who knows what this week will bring! We've booked the flights, a rental car, and a room for the first night. What we do after that is any one's guess.

It's not a conventional marriage, why should it be a conventional honeymoon?

It certainly isn't coming a moment too soon.

My Grand Adventure

On Monday of last week I drove to Providence, RI and parked downtown. My first order of business was to tuck some cash and my cell phone in my coat pocket, grab my tote bag, and head for WRNI. The tote held three things: the essay I'd written for NPR two years ago, the latest Orion magazine (in case I was kept waiting), and my ice skates.

The essay was written shortly after my first wedding, planned pregnancy, and miscarriage, from the perspective I had at that time on life and the direction of mine thus far. If you'd told me then that I would soon experience another pregnancy, miscarriage, and an impromptu wedding, not to mention divorce, of course I wouldn't have believed you. Even if I did believe you, and you explained, in graphic detail, how painful it was all going to be, I would have had no clue. Maybe I've lived a sheltered life, but I had no idea emotional trauma could hurt like that.

I'm not talking about the miscarriages here, I'm talking about the break-up of my marriage to A~. If you haven't felt the sensation of such intimate betrayal, let me tell you, it's like having your guts ripped out in slow-motion. It hurts. It literally, physically hurts. I still break down sobbing every now and then. Life is, in so many ways, wonderful now, don't get me wrong. But I'm by no means "over it."

So perhaps you can appreciate how strange it felt to read aloud, for public consumption, that "to this date, my unplanned teen pregnancy remains the most painful episode of my life." I wrote that with such confidence, clueless that anything could ever happen to rival the shame and guilt and gory dead-baby nightmares. It was definitely a dark time. But, people, I'm telling you, I didn't know from pain.

The two men who recorded me were very friendly and appreciative. They were also determined to have me read with gravitas and emotion; urging me to re-recite certain lines again and again, slowing down here, adding more drama there. It didn't take long -- I was in and out in less than an hour (I never needed the magazine) -- but even so, I left that radio station lathered in nervous sweat.

As soon as I hit the sidewalk, my spirits soared. It was a sunny, gorgeous early spring day, and the ice rink across the street was all but deserted. I paid my three dollars and spent the next two hours pretending, as I had on the pond in the backyard of my childhood winters, that I had all the grace and skill of an Olympic ice dancer: frontwards, backwards, one-legged, even managing a few drunken-looking and techniqueless spins. For those two hours, it didn't matter that I am actually thirty-seven-years-old, fertility challenged, and wearing a sweat-soaked bra, nor did it matter that I was unaccompanied in my adventure (as we all are, always, to some extent), not to mention confused about my direction in life. I was having fun. And sometimes, that's all that matters.

Mind Sweeping

I have become a devotee of David Allen, organization guru to the stars. Okay, not the stars, more like shiny sparkly high-power CEOs. I heard an interview with him on New Dimensions maybe two years ago, where he talked about what it's like to constantly feel like there's something important you should be doing but you're not sure what, or which of too many whats. He talked about focus, about how you either feel terrible about all the things you're not doing, or perfect about the one thing you are doing, and that in order to engage in the present, you must be clear and resolved about everything else. He says that a crisis is actually, in a way, less stressful than when there isn't a crisis, because, for instance, when you blow a tire on the highway, all the appointments and projects and decisions that need making go away. Suddenly, you can focus because there is clearly only one thing to focus on.

This was exactly what I needed to understand. At the time, I was still married to A~, between miscarriages, and torn between looking for full-time work (which I didn't want but felt guilty for not having, since A~ was working non-stop), writing (which I desperately DID want, but felt too depressed and too guilty to really apply my full attention), cleaning the kitchen (to please A~, since this was the one actual complaint about me that he could articulate), researching infertility (because supposedly this was the ultimate goal: to have a baby), and attending to my own mental and physical health. Strangely, this last one was also more for A~ than for myself. He seemed so put off by my unhappiness, and I was hyper-aware that he was not all that into me. No wonder I was miserable and unable to focus.

In his book, Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, Allen advocates what he calls "mind sweeping," or getting all the "open loops" or incompletions in your life out of your head and onto paper, a separate sheet for each thought, without any attempt to group things or prioritize until you've swept out every cobweb and corner. I tried it at the time, but got overwhelmed by the growing tower of paper. I ended up throwing out the whole stack.

I'm trying it again now. Though the tower is twice as high, it feels good this time.

I've been going through the pages one at a time, entering items in my calendar, filing others for future reference. Every reminder for a phone call, for instance, goes into a file I keep directly underneath my phone, so that when I sit down at my desk I can browse through and make the appropriate calls. Random errands go in the "errands" file, grouped with paperclips according to where I have to go. Now, when I leave the house, I peruse that file to see if I can complete any of those tasks along the way. There is another file for chores to do online, others for books I want to read, things I want to do someday/maybe, and another for topics I've been meaning to discuss with J~.

We cuddled up on the couch the other night with that file, and it was actually fun. We made small but important progress, some of which was mundane (like, When is your appointment with the urologist?) some not so simple (Would we rather see a Reproductive Endocrinologist?) and some light-hearted (Let's try on the ice skates I bought you! and What do we want to do next weekend, when B~ is away with his Mom?) All in all, it feels great to be getting all this underbrush cleared away.

In the file of possible upcoming blog topics: A report about my appointment with the therapist (I've been twice now). More on step-mothering, and how I felt on parent-teacher conference night. My night out with the girls. And, this may seem off topic for the direction the blog has taken, but I've been meaning to write about abortion again, and the not-so-simple choice between surgical and medical (meaning with a pill) procedures. Oh, yes, and sending out a thank you to all of you who've left supportive comments over the past weeks. I don't always make time to say so, but I do truly appreciate it. And so does J~.

Hope?

I had a dream two nights ago that a paper airplane hit our bedroom window, and rather than fall away, it continued to nose up against the glass. It took a while before it got my attention, but finally I opened the window, unfolded the paper, and revealed a child's crayon drawing and a happy-silly-rhyming poem about what our family life will be like with a baby. It dawned on me that I might be pregnant, so I did a test, and lo and behold: positive. J~ and I laughed and cried and hugged and marveled at the news.

Then I woke up.

It was Saturday morning and still a few days shy of this month's testing day. I wondered if this was a sign. I did feel crampy, after all, which was one of the most memorable and earliest symptoms in my past short-lived pregnancies. I told J~ about the dream right away, but not until late in the day did I admit that my hopes were up, in spite of my every effort to keep them at bay. He grinned and hugged me. "It's exciting," he said, and admitted that his hopes shot up, too, when I told him about the dream. "I don't think that's a bad thing," he added.

I wasn't so sure, but it was undeniably fun to be excited together.

We got caught up in burrito-making and our arriving dinner guests, and a popcorn-and-peanuts screening of Al Gore's must-see, very sobering and sometimes funny movie, An Inconvenient Truth. (Which, by the way, if you haven't seen, please do. It's important.)

Throughout the evening, the idea that maybe I was pregnant colored my thoughts. I felt extra in-love with J~, extra happy with my life. I took long, deep breaths. I smiled involuntarily. J~ told me later that he felt the same way.

But this morning, my temperature had dropped to its usual pre-menstrual low, and my hopes dropped correspondingly. "But I'm not depressed about it," I told J~.

It's true. I'm not.

My dream still feels like a good sign. Allowing my hopes to rise seems suddenly not foolish, but necessary. How else to shake ambivalence but to embrace desire? How else to move toward a dream except by entertaining unreasonable hope?

I do believe this can happen for us.

As embarrassed and potentially naive as I feel to say so, I do believe it's going to happen.

I'll even go so far as to boldly state that it will happen.

It is happening.

Maybe I'm not pregnant yet, but I'm getting ready for it. We're getting ready for it. We are taking the leap. We are going to have a baby.

...

And if, for some reason, it doesn't happen, we'll have at least sucked all the juices out of the delicious possibility that it could have happened, and that we truly wanted it to happen, and that we went through it together, loving each other all the way.

Speaking of which, I owe you some updates: J~'s appointment yielded no sample, no new information (yet); only a plastic cup and instructions on which lab to take it to once he had it filled. We plan to do the deed Wednesday morning.

My counseling appointment was moderately successful. I got something out of it, in spite of the fact that the counselor did a great deal more talking than I did. I'll probably see her again, but I'm also looking elsewhere for a better match.

More to come, more to come.

New Year, New Life

Before I talk about anything else, there's something I need to get off my chest.

An Open Letter to Last Year's Husband:

In the days leading up to Christmas, it occurred to me that last year at this time, you were having an affair. Whether or not anything "happened" while you shared a bed with her on that business trip is not the point. The fact that you had done it and kept it a secret from me is enough. The fact that you patted me on the back making pity noises when I admitted, repeatedly, that I couldn't shake my paranoia, is disgusting. The fact that you denied it to my face is incredibly disgusting. You were looking forward to seeing her again. You were excited about a potential relationship with her. Even the sexual energy that you brought to bed with me at the time, I now understand, was full of the tension building between you and her, and that makes me downright sick. The fact that I'm in a much better place now does not absolve you. The words "I'm sorry" do not absolve you. Even my forgiveness, which I realize now I offered artificially (wishfully) and prematurely, does not absolve you. I'm still pissed. I'm still hurt. And as much as I'd like to be above this kind of emotion, I sort of hate you.

Also, make no mistake about it, I divorced you because of your adultery. This was not a benevolent decision made together based on mutual drifting apart. This was a decision forced upon me by your unwillingness to choose between me and your mistress. Never once did you say you wanted to do the work to repair our marriage. Never once did you say you would choose me over her. If my choice was to either except that or kick you out, as far as I'm concerned, I had no choice. In fact, when it came right down to it, you chose her over me. I was not part of the decision at all. You left me for another woman, simple as that. Let me be very clear: I only agreed to call it "irreconcilable differences" so that I could get divorced from you as quickly and cheaply as possible. If I could do it over, I would, because I realize now that forcing you to face facts would have been worth every minute and every penny. You got off easy and you still make me sick.

Okay, dear readers, now that I have that out of my system, I can tell you about the part of my holidays that did not involve nauseating flashbacks to last year:

To make a long story short, we spent Christmas with my family and it was lovely, hanging out at my brother's house twenty minutes up the road, and at our smaller place with various configurations of family members before and after the big day.

With B~ tucked away at his mother's, J~ and I went to New York for New Year's weekend, making good time from our place in rural CT to my dad's in the city Friday evening, sleeping comfortably on an air mattress on the living room floor. We walked all day for two days in lower Manhattan, back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge, from Battery Park City through Chinatown and Little Italy, the East Village, the Garment District, galleries in Chelsea, all the way up to Columbus Circle. On Saturday, we ate a late lunch at Spice Market, and on Sunday, brunch at Prune. We hit the MoMA close enough to closing to get in for free but not too close to miss the Brice Marden retrospective. As for New Year's Eve, we skipped Time Square hoopla in favor of the pleasantly crowded dance floor at Irving Plaza and our new favorite band, Brazilian Girls. Balloons and confetti fell on our heads at midnight, and we kissed and danced and proclaimed this, such a difficult year, the best of our lives.

We didn't get our wish for a positive pregnancy test on Christmas day, but we're both working on improving our general and reproductive health, and, as always, continuing to enjoy the effort. Who knows what 2007 will bring. I have no doubt, at least, that the reflection on the previous year's holiday season will be much more favorable.

Dirty Laundry

I can't stay away.

Not that I'm trying to -- There's been plenty to keep me busy what with the holidays, a steady stream of guests, and dramas with the ex (his this time).

I could rant for hours on this one, but long story short: when J~ refused to keep a line of credit open to his ex-wife, a line he was supposed to close as part of their divorce agreement, she started calling in the middle of the night to harass us, and now she's refusing to hold up her end of the court-ordered bargain. I'll spare you the gory details, (and spare B~, my step-son, in case he ever stumbles upon this blog) but suffice it to say, it's ludicrous, and she doesn't have a leg to stand on, legally. The whole thing has left me composing spluttering diatribes in my mind, which distill down to a single question.

Please, woman, I ask you in all seriousness: Are you insane?

It is strangely energizing to be angry, to feel righteous. I know it's only adrenaline, conjured by the sense that the well-being of my loved ones and myself is threatened. I know it is an energy of limited use in my life. But it's better than weeping over my own ex, who I'm still shocked was able to drop the ball of our relationship so entirely, never looking back to see if I was okay, if maybe I might benefit from just one more apology, even going so far as to ask ME to "keep in touch."

Please, man, while I'm at it, I'll ask you, too: Are you insane???

J~ feels anger, too, but he's also grieving, so his voice cracks with pain when he expresses it. There is lead weight in his stride, in his voice, as he contends with the full implications of his ex's behavior. This was the woman he had a child with, after all, the woman he was devoted to for fifteen years, the woman to whom he must remain tied, through their son, for the rest of his/her/B~'s life.

Bottom line? Back to court, apparently.

My ex is a loser, but at least not spiteful. I suppose I can be thankful for that.

Meanwhile, J~ and I admire each other's matching wedding rings, which we wear with a sense of thrill and wonder. After all the hell we've been through, (and are still going through, peripherally), we feel like the luckiest couple on earth.

Plus, we're still trying to make a baby. What could be more fun than that?

Getaway

This past weekend, J~ and I drove north, to a bed and breakfast near Northampton, Massachusetts, for a much-anticipated getaway. This was my stomping grounds nearly twenty years ago, when I first began to wrestle with my identity as an individual, as an adult.

On our first night in town, while I reminisced about the old days, not all of which were good-old days, J~ moderated a stressful extended family health-crisis/divorce drama via cell phone. We managed to enjoy each other's company over dinner, in spite of our hunger, exhaustion, and mutual anxiety, not to mention the excruciatingly slow service, the loud and crowded room, the somewhat too-sweet Asian-fusion fare, and the drift of our dinner conversation into the state of the world and the tragic plight of so many of its peoples.

We stopped spontaneously on a busy sidewalk afterward, with sirens and traffic and cold wind and people all around, marveling that in the midst of all the chaos and violence and pollution and eager angst, we can still find a peaceful oasis within each other's gaze.

Last time I was in Northampton, I was still working out who I wanted to be, sorting out where I'd come from, and developing the internal fortitude to find happiness without guarantee of more happiness to come. Until this trip, I've always thought about my relationship with J~ in the context of my relationship with A~, comparing the two versions of my married life. In both cases, my primary relationship focus is the man. But suddenly I saw the even more primary relationship -- with myself -- and its much longer and more solidly upticking evolutionary curve. I realized afresh just how constant and unpredictable is the phenomenon of change.

However fleeting the moment may be, I thought, the moment is all we have.

So we ducked into a jewelry store, partly because it suprised us to find such a shop open until nine -- we had to experience it to believe it; partly for the atmosphere (it was quiet and warmly lit, with high ceilings and ornate woodwork -- a long-ago bank lobby); but mostly to look at wedding rings.

In the next two days, I took J~ to my favorite restaurants (India House, and Paul and Elizabeth's), on my favorite hikes (up Mount Norwottuck, and through the pine forest behind Hampshire College), and on a walking tour of downtown Amherst and Northampton. We returned to the jewelry store, this time with purpose, picking out a matching pair of simple, not-too-shiny white-gold bands, which will be custom-made and mailed to us in the next few weeks.

We can't wait to wear them.

In the meantime, there is Thanksgiving.

Speaking of which, thanks to all of you who wrote me with congratulations on the wedding, and appreciations for this blog. It means a lot to me to hear from you. Wishing you the best this holiday.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At this moment, my stepson is in the next room, being the typical twelve-year-old: doing homework (i.e. cruising iTunes). My man is at his men's group, getting and giving that good ole manly support. I am just home from the gym, curled up on the couch with my laptop propped on a pillow, feeling content.

The only clouds on my horizon are my ex, who has basically dropped off the face of the earth, and J~'s ex, who errs in the opposite direction, sometimes calling J~ three times in a day, imagining she and I are friends or will become so, while going wet-noodle limp in terms of holding up her end of the parenting bargain. But she lets J~ know how much she appreciates all he's done for her, and how sorry she is for her part in the downfall of their marriage. I'm glad he's receiving that healing salve, but I can't help but compare, and it makes me sad. Could twelve years of relationship truly go down the drain with just a "Thanks for everything. Keep in touch"? I guess so.

Tonight I will prepare myself a peaceful, solitary meal (my boys have already eaten). I'll compose my Thanksgiving shopping list. I'll file a few papers, and, come nine o'clock, herd B~ upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. J~ will return and we will have, as he puts it, "functional sex" (as opposed to the passion-driven sex we've been having all weekend, our first alone since marrying two weeks ago). Tonight is prime pre-ovulation time for my menstrual cycle.

I looked at my fertility chart a few minutes ago, and noted that my next period will be due November 27th or 28th. If it doesn't come, I'll be doing a pregnancy test by the 29th. The timing couldn't be more perfect. Exactly a year ago on that date, I sat down and began this blog, still reeling from my recent miscarriage, unclear as to whether there would ever be another pregnancy attempt in my life.

I could have never predicted the changes this year would bring, not the least of which is that I'm happy, and that the question (Babies, or not?), as well as the mantra, (Doing well... Babies or not.) are still very much alive.

We Did It

It is Saturday morning. J~ has made his ritual Saturday morning pancakes. Tomorrow, no doubt, he will make his ritual Sunday morning omelet. I am fresh out of the shower after a frosty four-mile run, feeling good, and still struck, as I have been since four nights ago, that a subtle but significant change has been made in my life.

No, I am not pregnant.

After dropping B~ with his friends for some downtown trick-or-treating, J~ and I stopped by Town Hall (it's open late on Tuesdays) to register me as a voter and to pick up a marriage license. Luckily for us, the office was abuzz with pre-election day preparations. Four women bustled behind counters and desks and a couple of men worked in the lobby area, setting up voting machines and tables and such. One of the men was the registrar of voters, also the dog warden, and several other positions he rattled off too quickly for me to retain. He and one of the women (the town clerk) handed me papers and pointed to where I was to sign. "I could marry you right now," he joked.

"Okay," we said.

Once it was understood that we were serious, he shrugged and smiled and said, "Alright. I'll do it," and performed a no-frills no-charge ceremony, consulting a paper-bound booklet for the procedure. "This is the first time I've done this," he admitted, having us raise our right hands to solemly pledge our "I do"s. He read the official questions and pronouncement straight from the booklet but ad-libbed his final line. "You may kiss the bride!" he laughed, and we and the bewildered and delighted women behind the counter laughed along with him.

J~ kissed me, and we held onto each other a long moment, while cheerful bustle resumed around us.

Two weekends from now we'll grab our chance for a mini-getaway. Maybe we'll find some wedding rings. Until then, and probably for a long time thereafter, I expect I'll continuee to be struck in random moments like this, by how modestly fabulous my life has become.